"...so this girl visited me 'bout a year ago, told me nobody matched up after I fucked her. She entered the convent. I told her to whack off under the habit every day, God wouldn't mind if my face filled her head. Then she gave me a hand job. You should move the horsey thing."
Ryan slid a bishop across diagonal squares, laughing.
"What's so funny O'Reily? Don't believe me?"
Keller played the big dick-small brain persona for all it was worth. First time Ryan really looked at him, without chemo as a cloud, his mick intuition picked up on the roaring monster underneath the prison bumpkin. Not too far off. Keller pulled Beecher's strings tight enough to wrap around his throat.
Keller had turned a pink shade of pussy during the first...second...too fucking many to count...round of he and Beecher's sick soap opera. Then they did the domination do-si-do, tried to stay together, until Beecher had his annual blood feud with sanity.
Ryan was a betting man, he knew even the dumbest con in Oz wouldn't place odds on that relationship lasting. Or Keller's flirtation with the Motherfucker Upstairs.
"No, c'mon, I wanna know."
Keller could have flung the Virgin Mary's knees open with that grin. Might as well tell him, probably planned this conversation hours in advance anyway.
" 'Horsey thing?' That Jethro-with-a-record bullshit may have unzipped Beecher's pants. Mine are bullshit-proof."
He checked a mental note to react in case of flying rooks or fists. Nothing. Just a thumb, brushing over the front of his hand.
"Hope you didn't tear up the receipt."
Ready to jerk away, but the thumb moved first. Keller licked his lips, predatory, and Ryan remembered the unbridled, uncontrollable lust in Keller's normally dim eyes after Browne and Shemin met the shank.
Ryan had killed before, out of need or payback, but he'd never gotten *off*. Not even with Ortolani. He felt the pride surging through his body when he avenged Gloria, but offing that shitbag Keenan didn't make him come close to cumming all over the produce.
So, yeah, Keller's thumb scared him more than a knuckle sandwich.
Ryan yanked his gaze up from the board, into Keller's eyes, the larger man looking through him.
"I said it's YOUR MOVE."
The first had been for his ears, the second must have been for...
Beecher. Walking by their table with a book in his hands. For Beecher's sake, it'd better be Stealthy Eyefucking for Dummies, cause he'd failed that class two or three years running.
If this were a sitcom, he and Cyril would lock the damned duo in a pod with cheap booze and even cheaper music, waiting for the happy moans and canned applause.
This was life. Hard life. Beecher and Keller had to work out their own psychotic dramas. He and Keller's Em City takedown worked so well, Ryan secretly hoped the B/K angstmobile was going to keep going forever. When he had Beecher's ass as a grand prize, Keller had two emotions. Protect, and obsess. Cut off from Beecher, Keller obsessed and slaughtered.
Ryan needed that sharp edge, for the more gruesome crimes, and for the perfect guy to pin the entire crime on. Didn't hurt that the man knew how to tell a story.
"Ryan, can I talk to you for a second?"
Ryan scooted his chair away from the table, Beecher's eyes fighting a holy war to stay on him, not Keller's muted expression.
He went back to Keller's face, inspecting Beecher casually, like a discarded toy. Then he returned to Beecher, who had given up the pretense of not caring, doing his best to sear Keller with slitted blues.
The eternal ping pong match drove him crazy after a few minutes, Christ knows how it felt after the days turned into years. And Gloria thought he was toxic...
"We gonna talk, or should I clear off the table?"
Beecher snapped back into his old stance, ignoring Keller. Ryan fought the urge to roll his eyes. He followed the other man out of Keller's earshot.
"Ryan, we've been friends for a long time. I wanted to warn you against Keller."
Ryan scratched his elbow, slightly annoyed at being a pawn in a game.
"I'm a big boy."
And then he got the concerned face. Beecher was a lawyer no matter how far he sank into the black hole of Oz.
"I realize that. But Keller takes you by surprise. He's deadly, dangerous, and covers that up with...caring."
Ryan had let a few defenses slip, this was Beecher after all. So he wasn't prepared when the anger shot through him. The assumption of gullibility didn't piss him off, he knew the warning was an excuse. Beecher probably didn't give a shit about his feelings, as long as his chess partner was in the vicinity.
He kept the detachment on his face, a few traces slipping through. Few came as self-centered as Beecher, but Ryan knew Beecher realized the mistake he made. He felt a hand on his arm, stroking apologetically. Almost believed it, until he saw Beecher watching Keller watching them. What a surprise.
Ryan and Beecher used to be, not exactly friends, but important to each other. They drifted apart, Fascist connection removed, replaced by separate struggles. Not a problem. But being nothing better than an obstacle in the middle of some tug of war irritated him. He was *that* worthless to the man who once depended on him? Motherfucker who broke Beecher's arms jumped a few points ahead of his first warm shoulder that didn't stink of white power or Aspercreme?
He never should have thought otherwise. This WAS Beecher. Ryan slammed and nailed a door shut, door he thought he'd closed after the riot. Walked toward the stairs, but not before he said his goodbyes.
"Fuck off Beecher." *** Keller watched the conversation with sick pleasure. Best type of pleasure. Another burnt bridge. Wasn't too thrilled about the mick in physical contact with his Toby, but he knew whose idea that was.
Beecher wanted him so bad he tried to use O'Reily against him. Watched him in his pod every night, looking pensive, probably hating himself for the carnage caused by his wandering front and back ends.
Keller felt no guilt. Memories of the bloodied screams helped him breathe recycled air and the constant stench of dozens of men shoved in a plexiglass jar. Making Beecher squirm, making him suffer, knowing the tiny shreds Beecher called a soul got excited every time he faced the latest round of abuse. Keller knew this because he felt the same each fucking minute Toby deigned to glare at him.
He stood up, brushing by his man, almost hoping for another fight, fist on fist, cock rubbing cock. Always a struggle not to take him back, he could have him easy enough. But Beecher deserved more torment, more pain. More love.
He counted on his fingers at the bottom of the stairs, shoe rubbing against the other. Waiting. Coupla minutes later O'Reily walked down, left the retard upstairs to twirl his hair. And Keller always thought only bottle blondes were idiots.
Ryan gave a mini-nod, both men walking in step to the hiding place under the stairs. Free of junkies and dealers, fuckin' miracle.
"What is it Keller?"
"I had a thought."
"Way to go K-Boy."
Keller smiled, causing a twinge in the skinnier man's body. Hidden, but not hidden fast enough. O'Reily was hot, no question about it.
"Beecher's been makin' us suck off his cock for years."
Easy to make a fast mover trip up with just the right phrase.
A hand went to O'Reily's shoulder, squeezing.
Saw Ryan almost shiver at the name and touch. He and Ryan had lots in common, no 2.5 kids or picket fences blurred by fancy-ass scotch. Some other time, other place, he woulda loved picking under that facade, boy acting so straight he couldn't be straight. He still liked Ryan as a chaos partner, nobody else plotted graves with so much finesse.
The hand traced down, fingers scratching clothed nipples, brushing over the hint of a belly. Kept Ryan from bolting with the other hand, wrapped on the hem of that same old wifebeater.
"You been putting up with him since long before I did. I think you deserve payback."
He strung the "payback" out to impossible syllables, finger sliding down a cool, bare arm.
Grey slid off Ryan's hips, zipper flashing briefly off an overhead light. He felt the resistance, tugging away with strength not matching up.
"You wouldn't turn down a blowjob, would you?"
"From you? Hell yeah."
Mondo Browne. The two men promised to never bring up their killing spree again, but he had shared the gory details while the rush scalded his blood.
"Feel for a shank. Go ahead."
His hand encircled Ryan's, big fingers in charge, inside Keller's 'beater. He forced the smaller digits over abs and pecs, enjoying the combination of rough and soft in the touch. Didn't stop the hand when it moved out, Ryan wiping his fingers off a little too quickly. He wanted a j/o from the smoldering Irishman, but that might as well wait 'til another time. This wasn't about Ryan anyway.
Pressed for time, Keller went to his knees, leaving the red briefs on. Holy shit, did the mick lose a bet? Hugged him real nice though. Pulled the front down, running his fingers along sac skin until he found balls to squeeze.
Very adequate piece of equipment. And pretty too. Good enough to eat. He bit back the laugh, licking thighs before jumping onto the head. Heard a surprised gasp, hands once rigid beginning to bruise his shoulders.
Keller ran a hand inside briefs as red as O'Reily would claim his cherry was. Such a cute ass, right fit for his body and not too tight. He dug into the fleshiness, face tilted at an angle to take the other inches. Twenty years of training gave him the best jaw in the place.
Ryan apparently gave up on homo-fear and gave into his dick, fucking Keller's mouth harder and harder. Keller ran a finger along the skin between balls and crack, fleshy warmth matching the cock he beat his tongue on. Hands dug in, nagging in his arms turning into an ache. He cursed over the meat in his mouth. Pain felt good. Better than fear, depression, rejection, all the crap Beecher and a bullet gave him.
He felt eyes, Prag Supervision, burning from the front of the stairs. Knew who it had to be. Heard Ryan fighting his own voice, shoved a finger into his crack so the scream would carry. Ryan shoved a fist into Keller's spine, other hand pushed into his own mouth when the spunk came gushing out. Hurts SO good baby.
Shook his jaw around when the dick left, trapped in trousers. Not that big a deal. He'd see it again.
Keller swallowed, but not enough to wipe away every taste. He stepped out, only a few people around. Hear nothing, see nothing. 'Cept Hoyt, too dumb to play the game, wide-eyed *and* sneering. Fucking ink-addicted pig. Keller nodded sharply, wordless invitation for a fight he knew he'd win.
Ryan walked in the opposite direction, whispering as he left.
"You're crazy man."
Ashamed all the sudden? Keller scratched his scalp, big, dumb grin spreading.
"Gotta have a hobby!"
He'd be back.
Murphy shook his head from the guard tower. Sure, like he'd never kissed O'Reily's Blarney Snake. Keller knew a fag when he saw one.
Where'd Beecher go? Looked around. His pod. Keller put on a show for his benefit, just like Beecher did with Mondo. He let the uppity bitch use his imagination, just like Beecher did with Mondo.
Reading some pseudo-intellectual book, pretending he was better than the rest of them. Not letting his eyes leave the pages.
"You make me sick."
Keller ripped the book away, flipping a few sheets of white, tossing it into the toilet.
"I'm not going to pay for that!"
In his face now. Loved it when his piece of ass got feisty, hissing with those claws.
Nose to nose now, Keller sensed Beecher's rage sagging, mixing with fear. And the longing stunk bad. He breathed extra heavy for his ex's benefit, rubbing his side before Beecher shoved his hand away.
Murphy had his back turned, sparing him the glimpse of forbidden sin.
"Mmmmm...my baby's all sad and she can't even show it."
Keller took his chance when that surly mouth opened to insult. Only lips first, no teeth, tongue slowly humping that bottom lip, pulling away another fraction every time Beecher moved for his head. Let his tongue glide inside, bathing roof to gums, staining with the mick's taste.
Felt the wall against his back when Beecher shoved him away. Then the realization of that extra topping, and Beecher wiped his mouth.
"Son of a bitch!"
The smirk creeped across each of his cheeks, enjoying way more than he should.
Beecher's cold-blooded rage burned into him, adored it, feared it, hurt by it. Wondered why these touches were satisfying and a letdown, never one or the other.
"Doncha just love that Irish spring?"
Beecher almost threw a punch, saw the flex in his tiny arm. Dragged a finger across his lips instead, sucking it dry.
"Oh, Keller...I preferred the earlier vintage. Circa 1997. Does it hurt, knowing you got thirds instead of Schillinger Seconds?"
Keller felt the usual mixed emotions, tighter pants when he remembered Beecher chewing on something a whole lot bigger than a finger, anger at the snooty madness.
He walked out, not giving that whore the satisfaction of a response, straddling a chair beside a bewildered Busmalis. Heard the hacking up a few minutes after he left. Knew he'd have a memory to slap his sausage with that night, and that no matter how many times Beecher spit into the sink, he would too.
In the shadows, for Keller only.
He looked up, Ryan staring back down at him, palms pressed against the window. Maybe he'd have a few smacks after lights out, gave him enough reason to.
That's the thing about putting on a show. You play the scene the same way, 365 a year, everybody's gonna get bored.
And if there was one thing Keller never let himself get, it was bored.